Prelude to Foundation f-1

by Isaac Asimov

  “I presume,” said Seldon, “that everything is automated.”

  She shrugged, but did not respond.

  “I don’t see quantities of Brothers and Sisters in evidence,” Seldon said, persisting.

  “Nevertheless, there is work to be done and they do it, even if you don’t see them at work. The details are not for you. Don’t waste your time by asking about it.”

  “Wait. Don’t be angry with me. I don’t expect to be told state secrets. Come on, dear.” (The word slipped out.)

  He took her arm as she seemed on the point of hurrying away. She remained in place, but he felt her shudder slightly and he released her in embarrassment.

  He said, “It’s just that it seems automated.”

  “Make what you wish of the seeming. Nevertheless, there is room here for human brains and human judgment. Every Brother and Sister has occasion to work here at some time. Some make a profession of it.”

  She was speaking more freely now but, to his continuing embarrassment, he noticed her left hand move stealthily toward her right arm and gently rub the spot where he had touched her, as though he had stung her.

  “It goes on for kilometers and kilometers,” she said, “but if we turn here there’ll be a portion of the fungal section you can see.”

  They moved along. Seldon noted how clean everything was. The glass sparkled. The tiled floor seemed moist, though when he seized a moment to bend and touch it, it wasn’t. Nor was it slippery—unless his sandals (with his big toe protruding in approved Mycogenian fashion) had nonslip soles.

  Raindrop Forty-Three was right in one respect. Here and there a Brother or a Sister worked silently, studying gauges, adjusting controls, sometimes engaged in something as unskilled as polishing equipment—always absorbed in whatever they were doing.

  Seldon was careful not to ask what they were doing, since he did not want to cause the Sister humiliation in having to answer that she did not know or anger in her having to remind him there were things he must not know.

  They passed through a lightly swinging door and Seldon suddenly noticed the faintest touch of the odor he remembered. He looked at Raindrop Forty-Three, but she seemed unconscious of it and soon he too became used to it.

  The character of the light changed suddenly. The rosiness was gone and the brightness too. All seemed to be in a twilight except where equipment was spotlighted and wherever there was a spotlight there seemed to be a Brother or a Sister. Some wore lighted headbands that gleamed with a pearly glow and, in the middle distance, Seldon could see, here and there, small sparks of light moving erratically.

  As they walked, he cast a quick eye on her profile. It was all he could really judge by. At all other times, he could not cease being conscious of her bulging bald head, her bare eyes, her colorless face. They drowned her individuality and seemed to make her invisible. Here in profile, however, he could see something. Nose, chin, full lips, regularity, beauty. The dim light somehow smoothed out and softened the great upper desert.

  He thought with surprise: She could be very beautiful if she grew her hair and arranged it nicely.

  And then he thought that she couldn’t grow her hair. She would be bald her whole life.

  Why? Why did they have to do that to her? Sunmaster said it was so that a Mycogenian would know himself (or herself) for a Mycogenian all his (or her) life. Why was that so important that the curse of hairlessness had to be accepted as a badge or mark of identity?

  And then, because he was used to arguing both sides in his mind, he thought: Custom is second nature. Be accustomed to a bald head, sufficiently accustomed, and hair on it would seem monstrous, would evoke nausea. He himself had shaved his face every morning, removing all the facial hair, uncomfortable at the merest stubble, and yet he did not think of his face as bald or as being in any way unnatural. Of course, he could grow his facial hair at any time he wished—but he didn’t wish to do so.

  He knew that there were worlds on which the men did not shave; in some, they did not even clip or shape the facial hair but let it grow wild. What would they say if they could see his own bald face, his own hairless chin, cheek, and lips?

  And meanwhile, he walked with Raindrop Forty-Three—endlessly, it seemed—and every once in a while she guided him by the elbow and it seemed to him that she had grown accustomed to that, for she did not withdraw her hand hastily. Sometimes it remained for nearly a minute.

  She said, “Here! Come here!”

  “What is that?” asked Seldon.

  They were standing before a small tray filled with little spheres, each about two centimeters in diameter. A Brother who was tending the area and who had just placed the tray where it was looked up in mild inquiry.

  Raindrop Forty-Three said to Seldon in a low voice, “Ask for a few.”

  Seldon realized she could not speak to a Brother until spoken to and said uncertainly, “May we have a few, B-brother?”

  “Have a handful, Brother,” said the other heartily.

  Seldon plucked out one of the spheres and was on the point of handing it to Raindrop Forty-Three when he noticed that she had accepted the invitation as applying to herself and reached in for two handfuls.

  The sphere felt glossy, smooth. Seldon said to Raindrop Forty-Three as they moved away from the vat and from the Brother who was in attendance, “Are these supposed to be eaten?” He lifted the sphere cautiously to his nose.

  “They don’t smell,” she said sharply.

  “What are they?”

  “Dainties. Raw dainties. For the outside market they’re flavored in different ways, but here in Mycogen we eat them unflavored—the only way.”

  She put one in her mouth and said, “I never have enough.”

  Seldon put his sphere into his mouth and felt it dissolve and disappear rapidly. His mouth, for a moment, ran liquid and then it slid, almost of its own accord, down his throat.

  He stood for a moment, amazed. It was slightly sweet and, for that matter, had an even fainter bitter aftertaste, but the main sensation eluded him.

  “May I have another?” he said.

  “Have half a dozen,” said Raindrop Forty-Three, holding out her hand. “They never have quite the same taste twice and have practically no calories. Just taste.”

  She was right. He tried to have the dainty linger in his mouth; he tried licking it carefully; tried biting off a piece. However, the most careful lick destroyed it. When a bit was crunched off a piece, the rest of it disappeared at once. And each taste was undefinable and not quite like the one before.

  “The only trouble is,” said the Sister happily, “that every once in a while you have a very unusual one and you never forget it, but you never have it again either. I had one when I was nine—” Her expression suddenly lost its excitement and she said, “It’s a good thing. It teaches you the evanescence of things of the world.”

  It was a signal, Seldon thought. They had wandered about aimlessly long enough. She had grown used to him and was talking to him. And now the conversation had to come to its point. Now!

  44

  Seldon said, “I come from a world which lies out in the open, Sister, as all worlds do but Trantor. Rain comes or doesn’t come, the rivers trickle or are in flood, temperature is high or low. That means harvests are good or bad. Here, however, the environment is truly controlled. Harvests have no choice but to be good. How fortunate Mycogen is.”

  He waited. There were different possible answers and his course of action would depend on which answer came.

  She was speaking quite freely now and seemed to have no inhibitions concerning his masculinity, so this long tour had served its purpose. Raindrop Forty-Three said, “The environment is not that easy to control. There are, occasionally, viral infections and there are sometimes unexpected and undesirable mutations. There are times when whole vast batches wither or are worthless.”

  “You astonish me. And what happens then?”

  “There is usually no recourse but to destroy the
spoiled batches, even those that are merely suspected of spoilage. Trays and tanks must be totally sterilized, sometimes disposed of altogether.”

  “It amounts to surgery, then,” said Seldon. “You cut out the diseased tissue.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do you do to prevent such things from happening?”

  “What can we do? We test constantly for any mutations that may spring up, any new viruses that may appear, any accidental contamination or alteration of the environment. It rarely happens that we detect anything wrong, but if we do, we take drastic action. The result is that bad years are very few and even bad years affect only fractional bits here and there. The worst year we’ve ever had fell short of the average by only 12 percent—though that was enough to produce hardship. The trouble is that even the most careful forethought and the most cleverly designed computer programs can’t always predict what is essentially unpredictable.”

  (Seldon felt an involuntary shudder go through him. It was as though she was speaking of psychohistory—but she was only speaking of the microfarm produce of a tiny fraction of humanity, while he himself was considering all the mighty Galactic Empire in every one of all its activities.)

  Unavoidably disheartened, he said, “Surely, it’s not all unpredictable. There are forces that guide and that care for us all.”

  The Sister stiffened. She turned around toward him, seeming to study him with her penetrating eyes.

  But all she said was, “What?”

  Seldon felt uneasy. “It seems to me that in speaking of viruses and mutations, we’re talking about the natural, about phenomena that are subject to natural law. That leaves out of account the supernatural, doesn’t it? It leaves out that which is not subject to natural law and can, therefore, control natural law.”

  She continued to stare at him, as though he had suddenly begun speaking some distant, unknown dialect of Galactic Standard. Again she said, in half a whisper this time, “What?”

  He continued, stumbling over unfamiliar words that half-embarrassed him. “You must appeal to some great essence, some great spirit, some . . . I don’t know what to call it.”

  Raindrop Forty-Three said in a voice that rose into higher registers but remained low, “I thought so. I thought that was what you meant, but I couldn’t believe it. You’re accusing us of having religion. Why didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you use the word?”

  She waited for an answer and Seldon, a little confused at the onslaught, said, “Because that’s not a word I use. I call it ‘supernaturalism.’ ”

  “Call it what you will. It’s religion and we don’t have it. Religion is for the tribesmen, for the swarming sc—”

  The Sister paused to swallow as though she had come near to choking and Seldon was certain the word she had choked over was “scum.”

  She was in control again. Speaking slowly and somewhat below her normal soprano, she said, “We are not a religious people. Our kingdom is of this Galaxy and always has been. If you have a religion—”

  Seldon felt trapped. Somehow he had not counted on this. He raised a hand defensively. “Not really. I’m a mathematician and my kingdom is also of this Galaxy. It’s just that I thought, from the rigidity of your customs, that your kingdom—”

  “Don’t think it, tribesman. If our customs are rigid, it is because we are mere millions surrounded by billions. Somehow we must mark ourselves off so that we precious few are not lost among your swarms and hordes. We must be marked off by our hairlessness, our clothing, our behavior, our way of life. We must know who we are and we must be sure that you tribesmen know who we are. We labor in our farms so that we can make ourselves valuable in your eyes and thus make certain that you leave us alone. That’s all we ask of you . . . to leave us alone.”

  “I have no intention of harming you or any of your people. I seek only knowledge, here as everywhere.”

  “So you insult us by asking about our religion, as though we have ever called on a mysterious, insubstantial spirit to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves.”

  “There are many people, many worlds who believe in supernaturalism in one form or another . . . religion, if you like the word better. We may disagree with them in one way or another, but we are as likely to be wrong in our disbelief as they in their belief. In any case, there is no disgrace in such belief and my questions were not intended as insults.”

  But she was not reconciled. “Religion!” she said angrily. “We have no need of it.”

  Seldon’s spirits, having sunk steadily in the course of this exchange, reached bottom. This whole thing, this expedition with Raindrop Forty-Three, had come to nothing.

  But she went on to say, “We have something far better. We have history.”

  And Seldon’s feelings rebounded at once and he smiled.

  BOOK

  HAND-ON-THIGH STORY— . . . An occasion cited by Hari Seldon as the first turning point in his search for a method to develop psychohistory. Unfortunately, his published writings give no indication as to what that “story” was and speculations concerning it (there have been many) are futile. It remains one of the many intriguing mysteries concerning Seldon’s career.

  ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

  45

  Raindrop Forty-Three stared at Seldon, wild-eyed and breathing heavily.

  “I can’t stay here,” she said.

  Seldon looked about. “No one is bothering us. Even the Brother from whom we got the dainties said nothing about us. He seemed to take us as a perfectly normal pair.”

  “That’s because there is nothing unusual about us—when the light is dim, when you keep your voice low so the tribesman accent is less noticeable, and when I seem calm. But now—” Her voice was growing hoarse.

  “What of now?”

  “I am nervous and tense. I am . . . in a perspiration.”

  “Who is to notice? Relax. Calm down.”

  “I can’t relax here. I can’t calm down while I may be noticed.”

  “Where are we to go, then?”

  “There are little sheds for resting. I have worked here. I know about them.”

  She was walking rapidly now and Seldon followed.

  Up a small ramp, which he would not have noticed in the twilight without her, there was a line of doors, well spread apart.

  “The one at the end,” she muttered. “If it’s free.”

  It was unoccupied. A small glowing rectangle said NOT IN USE and the door was ajar.

  Raindrop Forty-Three looked about rapidly, motioned Seldon in, then stepped inside herself. She closed the door and, as she did so, a small ceiling light brightened the interior.

  Seldon said, “Is there any way the sign on the door can indicate this shed is in use?”

  “That happened automatically when the door closed and the light went on,” said the Sister.

  Seldon could feel air softly circulating with a small sighing sound, but where on Trantor was that ever-present sound and feel not apparent?

  The room was not large, but it had a cot with a firm, efficient mattress, and what were obviously clean sheets. There was a chair and table, a small refrigerator, and something that looked like an enclosed hot plate, probably a tiny food-heater.

  Raindrop Forty-Three sat down on the chair, sitting stiffly upright, visibly attempting to force herself into relaxation.

  Seldon, uncertain as to what he ought to do, remained standing till she gestured—a bit impatiently—for him to sit on the cot. He did so.

  Raindrop Forty-Three said softly, as though talking to herself, “If it is ever known that I have been here with a man—even if only a tribesman—I shall indeed be an outcast.”

  Seldon rose quickly. “Then let’s not stay here.”

  “Sit down. I can’t go out when I’m in this mood. You’ve been asking about religion. What are you after?”

  It seemed to Seldon that she had changed completely. Gone was the passivity, the subservience. There was none of the shyness,
the backwardness in the presence of a male. She was glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

  “I told you. Knowledge. I’m a scholar. It is my profession and my desire to know. I want to understand people in particular, so I want to learn history. For many worlds, the ancient historical records—the truly ancient historical records—have decayed into myths and legends, often becoming part of a set of religious beliefs or of super naturalism. But if Mycogen does not have a religion, then—”

  “I said we have history.”

  Seldon said, “Twice you’ve said you have history. How old?”

  “It goes back twenty thousand years.”

  “Truly? Let us speak frankly. Is it real history or is it something that has degenerated into legend?”

  “It is real history, of course.”

  Seldon was on the point of asking how she could tell, but thought better of it. Was there really a chance that history might reach back twenty thousand years and be authentic? He was not a historian himself, so he would have to check with Dors.

  But it seemed so likely to him that on every world the earliest histories were medleys of self-serving heroisms and minidramas that were meant as morality plays and were not to be taken literally. It was surely true of Helicon, yet you would find scarcely a Heliconian who would not swear by all the tales told and insist it was all true history. They would support, as such, even that perfectly ridiculous tale of the first exploration of Helicon and the encounters with large and dangerous flying reptiles—even though nothing like flying reptiles had been found to be native to any world explored and settled by human beings.

  He said instead, “How does this history begin?”

  There was a faraway look in the Sister’s eyes, a look that did not focus on Seldon or on anything in the room. She said, “It begins with a world—our world. One world.”

  “One world?” (Seldon remembered that Hummin had spoken of legends of a single, original world of humanity.)

  “One world. There were others later, but ours was the first. One world, with space, with open air, with room for everyone, with fertile fields, with friendly homes, with warm people. For thousands of years we lived there and then we had to leave and skulk in one place or another until some of us found a corner of Trantor where we learned to grow food that brought us a little freedom. And here in Mycogen, we now have our own ways—and our own dreams.”